for starters, and then the interviews with the feminist bitch (who, no matter how wonderful she thought she was, still had to squat to pee, by damn), the Nookim broad, himself, dopey Oliver, and even the idiotic windbag of a preacher from across the street. Which was where Brandon was in the process of parking his car. He'd driven into Maggody on the county road from Hasty and cut off his lights before coasting in behind the Assembly Hall. His presence at this hour needed to remain a secret, and a hefty percentage of the locals were on one side of the road or the other. There was a light on in the mobile home back there, but the curtains were closed and he didn't see any shadows moving inside.
The Emporium was dark. Brandon cut across the area behind it, alarming the rats chewing holes in the plastic garbage bags, and continued through the weeds until he was far enough away from the bank to risk a brisk dash across the road. He then repeated the manuever to come up behind the bank, where the damn fool women couldn't see him enter through the back door. As if they'd stop gabbing and stuffing their faces long enough to notice anything, including a nuclear explosion, he thought as he flashed an unseen yet nevertheless obscene gesture at them.
He unlocked the door an slipped inside, reminding himself not to lock it behind him; he was expecting company and it would be downright inhospitable and even insulting to his guest, who then might vanish. The back room was darker than the inside of a cow. He headed for his office, his hands out in front of him to avoid any injury to his admittedly attractive face. Had the sorority girls been hot to kiss his silky lips or what, he thought with a smirk. He had laid more dames than any of the guys at the frat house, and been ribbed about it day and night. College had been the best years of his life, what with the beer busts and girls' busts and that crazy luau party when he'd gotten into the purple passion about noon and was drunker than a skunk by the time he picked up his date at the Delta Omega house (better known to his brothers as the doghouse, but that was an in-house joke). He must have had a gallon of Shanson's wicked brew that afternoon. Not that that'd impaired his renown prowess, of course. Why, he'd made Luci Hunnicut lie across the front seat and give him a blow job while he drove back to the house, only going up on the curb one time. Some party that'd been. Purple puke everywhere.
"Stop or I'll be obliged to shoot you," croaked a voice from the darkness.
Brandon stopped and he did it damn fast. His heart was thudding so loudly he could hear it, and a sour taste flooded his mouth. His fingers were frozen in the dark. He managed to get his raised foot down to the floor and to bring his arms to his sides. "Who's there?" he managed. It came out in a gurgle, but it was the best he could do.
"Don't make me have to kill you. I have this big, enormous gun aimed right at you."
Brandon frantically tried to recall if there was anything in the back room he could use for a weapon. The metal wastebasket didn't seem real lethal, nor did the dusty ledgers piled in a corner. "Stop or I'll debit your account" wasn't going to intimidate the prowler. He sucked in a breath and tried for a more authoritative tone. "I am the branch manager, buddy, and I have every right to be here. I also have a rifle and I've killed enough ducks and squirrels to feed your favorite African nation."
"Oh, yeah? Let's see some identification."
"You can't see anything, hairball. It's pitch black in here, or haven't you noticed?" Brandon said, feeling brave enough to risk taking the offense, it being, as Coach Grebes used to say in the locker room during halftime, the best defense. The remark had always puzzled Brandon, but he'd loyally memorized it just the same.
"I know as well as you do that it's dark in here," the voice retorted, clearly offended. "But how am I supposed to know if you're really Mr. Bernswallow
The Emporium was dark. Brandon cut across the area behind it, alarming the rats chewing holes in the plastic garbage bags, and continued through the weeds until he was far enough away from the bank to risk a brisk dash across the road. He then repeated the manuever to come up behind the bank, where the damn fool women couldn't see him enter through the back door. As if they'd stop gabbing and stuffing their faces long enough to notice anything, including a nuclear explosion, he thought as he flashed an unseen yet nevertheless obscene gesture at them.
He unlocked the door an slipped inside, reminding himself not to lock it behind him; he was expecting company and it would be downright inhospitable and even insulting to his guest, who then might vanish. The back room was darker than the inside of a cow. He headed for his office, his hands out in front of him to avoid any injury to his admittedly attractive face. Had the sorority girls been hot to kiss his silky lips or what, he thought with a smirk. He had laid more dames than any of the guys at the frat house, and been ribbed about it day and night. College had been the best years of his life, what with the beer busts and girls' busts and that crazy luau party when he'd gotten into the purple passion about noon and was drunker than a skunk by the time he picked up his date at the Delta Omega house (better known to his brothers as the doghouse, but that was an in-house joke). He must have had a gallon of Shanson's wicked brew that afternoon. Not that that'd impaired his renown prowess, of course. Why, he'd made Luci Hunnicut lie across the front seat and give him a blow job while he drove back to the house, only going up on the curb one time. Some party that'd been. Purple puke everywhere.
"Stop or I'll be obliged to shoot you," croaked a voice from the darkness.
Brandon stopped and he did it damn fast. His heart was thudding so loudly he could hear it, and a sour taste flooded his mouth. His fingers were frozen in the dark. He managed to get his raised foot down to the floor and to bring his arms to his sides. "Who's there?" he managed. It came out in a gurgle, but it was the best he could do.
"Don't make me have to kill you. I have this big, enormous gun aimed right at you."
Brandon frantically tried to recall if there was anything in the back room he could use for a weapon. The metal wastebasket didn't seem real lethal, nor did the dusty ledgers piled in a corner. "Stop or I'll debit your account" wasn't going to intimidate the prowler. He sucked in a breath and tried for a more authoritative tone. "I am the branch manager, buddy, and I have every right to be here. I also have a rifle and I've killed enough ducks and squirrels to feed your favorite African nation."
"Oh, yeah? Let's see some identification."
"You can't see anything, hairball. It's pitch black in here, or haven't you noticed?" Brandon said, feeling brave enough to risk taking the offense, it being, as Coach Grebes used to say in the locker room during halftime, the best defense. The remark had always puzzled Brandon, but he'd loyally memorized it just the same.
"I know as well as you do that it's dark in here," the voice retorted, clearly offended. "But how am I supposed to know if you're really Mr. Bernswallow
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